“Record YG across the spectrum,” Weng said. “All bands. Zoom in on it.”
“Yes, sir.” Charlie typed commands relayed to the YG satellite. The view zoomed even closer, recording video from all sensors: optical (night vision), heat, infrared and gamma.
The glow of Ghost One grew brighter due to the malfunctioning suit affecting its IR-spoofing ability. Two more SEALs arrived, providing cover for the others as they grabbed Ghost One and thrust him to the ground — out of the open line of fire. They took cover as their brothers from the end of the street laid down suppressing fire on the enemy.
The resolution of the feed in the box was much greater than the Chinese satellites. Ghost One appeared to be in a bag of sorts. “Stand by on self destruct,” Trest said. “Let’s give ‘em a chance to make it back to the bird.”
“Shut down everything except his vitals,” McCreary ordered.
“Yes, sir,” Baldo said. The vitals appeared on screen — all in green ranges — indicating normal.
“Beacon to Ghost One, lie still. Exfil in progress.”
The vital signs told them that Ghost One was conscious and fine, still in sleepwalking mode. The same state he would be in after any mission for the long flight home. The SEALs hurried him out of the street to the cover of trees and other buildings. Three SEALs carried him while one provided forward cover and one covered their backs. They cut through the buildings, reaching a clearing where the stealth Blackhawk awaited. Two PJs threw the bay door open and pulled him aboard. They looked at the SEAL for an explanation. They never heard a KIA called out over the radio.
“He’s okay,” The SEAL said. “Get him out of the bag.”
“Roger that,” The PJ answered. They slid the helo door shut and the Blackhawk was airborne.
“SITREP?” The pilot asked his PJ crewman over the radio. A PJ unzipped the body bag, carefully examining the suit and the man inside. He removed the helmet, eyeing a deep gouge on the carbon fiber surface. He felt inside to see if any broke through. None did. A gaping tear in the suit ran from a shoulder down an arm — an extension of the damage to the helmet.
The PJ checked Ghost One’s breathing and pulse, radioing the pilot back. “His vitals are fine. He sustained surface-level helmet and suit damage. Appears to be shrapnel strikes.”
The pilot relayed the message to Hangar 302 as the Blackhawk flew over the heart of Al Mukalla.
“Cancel self destruct,” Trest ordered. Baldo cleared the command on the computer screen and exited the program. “I’ll be in my office. Call me when the Aurora is wheels up.”
“Yes, sir,” McCreary replied.
The IR monitor in the bunkhouse showed the helicopter taking off and heading north. “They’re headed south toward the Gulf of Aden,” Weng said. “Bypassing the Saudi base. Track them with YG.”
“Yes, sir,” Charlie replied.
It was only a ten-minute flight for the Blackhawk as it approached the newest aircraft carrier in the US Navy fleet, twenty miles off the coast of Yemen. The carrier showed up vividly in night vision from the YG satellite, its runway lines apparent, but her deck mysteriously vacant of all aircraft.
“Request carrier info,” Weng said.
“Yes, sir,” Charlie replied. Sending a secure message back to China.
“Where is the Aurora?” Weng asked.
The Blackhawk landed on a helipad off the main carrier runway. The reply came back from China. Charlie read it, “The USS Gerald R Ford. Super-carrier. Lead class.”
“Zoom in on the carrier.”
“Yes, sir.’
Weng studied the carrier. Waiting for the Aurora or any supersonic transport to rise by elevator from a hangar deep inside. The elevators were already in the up position and there was no movement on the deck. He looked to the Blackhawk, seeing two men unloading a third on a stretcher. “Pararescue,” Weng said, judging by their uniforms and Mich helmets. The person they carried glowed in the same dull IR signature as before, moments prior to his concealment in a body bag.
“What are they doing?” Weng asked. It appeared as though the PJs were carrying him to the aft of the ship in the middle of the runway. They took him down the painted lines on the runway, toward the back of the ship when all three of them vanished, forty feet from the edge of the carrier. Charlie looked at Weng, mystified.
The USS Gerald R Ford was a floating technological marvel and the most advanced ship in the Navy’s arsenal. The Aurora, along with the stealth AOD attached to her fuselage, was on the runway near the aft edge of the ship. The PJs carefully loaded the sleeping Ghost One into the drone and buttoned it up. A portable shell of a hangar was over the Aurora. The hangar roof painted with matching deck color and runway stripes to conceal it from spy planes and satellites above. From high above, it looked like an empty runway. The PJs stood off to the side as the ground crew attached the catapult shuttle to the Aurora. They cleared out and the EMALS catapult did its thing. Launching the Aurora like an electromagnetic railgun. Sending her down the runway where she leapt into flight.
All Weng and the others could see was a black patch flashing across the runway, briefly obscuring the dotted runway lines before disappearing over the water. “Lock on to the heat signature,” Weng ordered.
Charlie did, and the same box appeared around the small heat signature, outlined in a red graphic. The MSS agents relaxed, knowing they were back on the Aurora as it began the long haul back to New Mexico.
“Send report that we are successfully tracking the stealth aircraft, Aurora,” Weng said. Charlie typed it into the computer and sent the encrypted message back to the MSS headquarters in Beijing.
Two and a half hours later, Jennifer sat bleary eyed in her car outside of Hangar 302. She had decided to risk it — a fresh new Venti soy mocha was in the cup holder with the old one on the passenger floor. She was halfway into her audio book. All the fun was gone and it felt more like torture as she didn’t expect to be listening for six hours straight. It was fulfilling its purpose though — keeping her awake. She had grown accustomed to the routine patrols of F-22s taking off and landing every hour. There was also a touch and go exercise that kept her alert, letting her put down the audio book for ten minutes. The F-22s used landing lights, which made them easy to spot. She didn’t know what to look for when the Aurora came down. She wondered if she may have already missed it, and Hal was long gone — back in bed fast asleep. She felt envy at the thought, knowing he would be peacefully sleeping while she waited out here for nothing. She relished at the thought of the ribbing she would give him the next time she saw him.
Her focus drifted back to the book. She was getting lost in the narrative when she heard the familiar screech of hangar doors opening. She paused the audiobook and yanked the earbuds out. Lifting up the night vision binoculars. The black of night seemed to come alive as the Aurora exited the darkness to form a flying silhouette against the hangars on the other side of the runway. The Aurora landed smooth, precise and flawless. A seamless motion from sky to ground. It quickly taxied to Hangar 302. The pilot moving it from its most vulnerable state — on the runway. The doors rapidly shut behind it with an even louder screech. The Aurora was visible to her and the rest of the base for less than thirty seconds.
Weng and the others in the bunkhouse witnessed the Aurora landing in person. In awe of the magnificent aircraft. They had been tracking it from the YG satellite feed for the last three hours on its journey from Yemen to New Mexico. Weng read the airspeed data from the spy satellite, “Top speed, 7,279 kilometers per hour.” He looked to the other MSS spies under the aliases of Charlie and Matt. “That’s Mach six! We thought Aurora was only capable of Mach four.”